


Promises

by Elvenclub



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, F/M, Love/Hate, NSFW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6887980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvenclub/pseuds/Elvenclub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He did not know why she always came back.</p><p>Sure, he knew the exterior reason. She told him every time she left him. She would mutter it under her breath when they argued. She thought it as she lay on her side watching him. She probably dreamed it, if she stayed long enough for him to see her dream.</p><p>“Next time I see you, I’m going to kill you.”</p><p>---</p><p>An AU fic where Sole spared Kellogg, but not for the reasons he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Promise

**Author's Note:**

> A small ficlet I wrote for a smut blog I help run. I liked it so much I'm flirting with the idea of writing more, so watch this space.

He did not know why she always came back.

Sure, he knew the exterior reason. She told him every time she left him. She would mutter it under her breath when they argued. She thought it as she lay on her side watching him. She probably dreamed it, if she stayed long enough for him to see her dream.

“Next time I see you, I’m going to kill you.”

He smirked as he lit his cigar, the various bottles clinking together as the table wobbled between them. “Is that so, Princess?”

She narrowed her eyes over the rim of her beer, pausing before she downed the rest of it. She placed the empty bottle with the others. “You don’t believe me?”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. Her hair was cut short this time, shorter than before. It tried to escape from underneath her cap, all red and fire. The cut underneath her eye was healing into a nasty scar. Something got a good swing in between their meetings. He wondered how many pieces she had left it in.

He took his cigar out of his mouth and exhaled. She seemed to soften through the smoky haze. “No.” he sighed.

“Then why is my gun pointed at you?”

She shifted her shoulder, cocking the gun under the table for show. If he knew her, and by now he liked to think he knew her well, it was aimed at his stomach. “A bastard’s death” as she called it.

He picked up his beer, frowning at the mouthful left at the bottom of the bottle. “Formality.”

A snort escaped her as he drained his drink. “Formality?”

He nodded, placing his bottle with her’s. “We’ve reached a steady rhythm.”

Her brow quirked, a hint of a smirk curliing her lips. “Oh? Are you a shrink now?”

He shook his head, placing the cigar between his lips again. “I’m a merc. That’s as close to being a shrink without being an egghead you can get out here.”

She glanced him over. Gun still loaded, she moved it onto the table. It was still close to her fingers, but she folded her arms. “Explain.”

“Look, we don’t come here for my musings on wasteland life.” He frowned around his cigar, “Either we’re fucking or dying, not playing mind games.”

She did soften at that. Her voice lowered, her large eyes watching him intently. “Humour me.”

He hated when she did that. When some of her sharpness…he did not know. Disappeared. She had always reminded him of some animal, lost in the wastes. Something angry, bitter. Something with claws. It made watching her mewl as she came underneath him all the more satisfying. He leaned forward, jabbing his cigar out in a nearby ashtray. The smoke curled around the silence.

“I imagine this entire thing is me humouring you.”

She blinked, prickling at the idea. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who seeks me out, Princess.”

“I do not seek you out.”

He looked into her eyes. “Really? So you don’t come running to me when you’re tired of that limp dicked boyfriend of yours? Or girlfriend, or whatever you’ve been fucking.”

He watched the colour rise in her cheeks. She crossed her legs. He spread his, trying to alleviate the tightness of his trousers.

“Or when you’re stuck in that science fiction bunker, surrounded by chrome and inhibition.” He leaned closer, sneering, “I bet you fuck yourself senseless thinking of me. I bet you hide in some supply closet and imagine me fucking that juicy ass.”

He stood up a little from his chair, his hands braced on the table as he leaned in closer. He could smell the sweat on her skin, the dirt caked onto her, the beer on her breath. She was flushed, her skin a deep pink.

“Truth is, Princess, that no one else can fuck you the way you should be fucked. The truth is you love it.”

The air cracked as she slapped him across his cheek. He kicked his chair out from underneath himself as he rushed her. She winced as her back hit the wall, her hands feebly trying to bat his away as he tore at her clothing. It was part of the game, they both knew. She wore no armour when they were together. None of that railroad crap or anything. Neither did he.

Her clothing tore away like paper. Pinned to the wall by a hand around her throat, he let his free hand cup her breast. His thumb drifted over her piercing hard nipple. She shivered, her hand on his wrist. He moved closer to her. Her body radiated heat. With one hand still feeling her breast, he used his other thumb to part her lips. Her breath pushed against his own, the pair achingly close. He did not kiss her. He never kissed her. Kissing showed care. Instead he kept her there, inches from comfort, as he ripped her trousers away from her thighs. He slipped his hand between her legs, her clit throbbing against his fingers. Her hips bucked against his hand, trying to draw him further in. He tightened his grip around her throat.

“Not yet.” He growled. He lowered her onto her knees. She unzipped him, his cock aching for release. He shut his eyes as her warm mouth enveloped him. He rested his hand on the top of her head, his fingers threading through her hair. She brushed her tongue along the underside of his cock, his toes curling as a shiver ran up his own spine. He stopped himself from thrusting, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. When he could not take it anymore, he dragged her onto her feet and threw her face first onto the bed.

He tore off his clothing, grunting as he mounted her. She spread her legs for him, guiding him with her hips. Her head tilted back against his shoulder, he buried his nose into the crook of her neck. He hilted himself inside her in one thrust. Her cry, mixed with pleasure and pain, stirred inside him. He pinned her wrists to the bed and began to thrust. She pushed back against him as best she could, her legs wrapped around his. He nipped at her neck and shoulders with his teeth, each bite rewarding him with a pained cry. A slew of incoherant sobs escaped her, ranging from “yes! fuck me!” to insults on his character. With her wrists pinned with one hand, he clamped the other over her mouth.

“Shut. The Fuck. Up!” he snarled into her ear.

Hand over her throat, he pulled them into a sitting position. He kept her pressed against him, relishing his now unlimited access to her breasts and clit. She screamed as he pinched her clit, bouncing on his cock with each thrust. Over the next few hours they fucked across the room. He hit her, she hit him. She sat on his face, he fucked her in the ass. She threatened with her gun, he threatened with a knife. All the while the burning tension to kiss dissipated with spent cum and heavy breathing. In the end, as the early morning light started to peek through the window, she was cradled against him. His lips pressed into her throat, she was limp as he continued to fuck her. His hand on her ass to balance, he felt her shiver around him for the upteenth time. Her tired fingers dug into his pinpricked shoulders, her cheek resting on the top of his head. He lowered them both back onto the bed, watching her face contort as she came. He buried his face in her neck as his orgasm spasmed through him.

He rested against her, his chest moving in steady rhythm with hers. Her fingertips trailed over his scalp, causing his spine to tingle. He let himself rest there, silent against her, and ignored any sentiment he may have felt as the feeling of afterglow.

He pulled himself out of her carefully, watching her drip onto the bed. He grabbed a towel from the nearby chair and handed it to her. She placed it between her legs as he rolled onto his back beside her. They stared at the ceiling for a while, quiet and warm, their knuckles brushing against each other. When he got up for beer and a cigar, he let her have a hit of both. He let himself smirk as she blew smoke rings.

“So are you going to explain?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

He took the offered cigar from her, inhaling deeply from it. He exhaled the smoke through his nose. “These meetings have a…” he felt for the right word, his voice hushed in the early morning quiet, “procedure. You find me, usually in whatever hole I’ve made home, and threaten to kill me. Then we drink, we talk,”

She snorted. He shot her with a gentle glare.

“We talk,” he continued, “while you point a gun at me. Then we fuck. After that, you get dressed and leave, swearing you’ll kill me next time you see me.”

He glanced at her, watching her eyelids flutter as she watched the ceiling. “I’m not dead yet.”

“How can you trust that won’t change this time?” She turned her head and met his gaze.

Because you need me. He thought. Because, for whatever reason, you need to punish yourself. What better way than to fuck the monster in your life?

He looked back at the ceiling. “Because you’re spineless. And exhausted.”

She did not respond. After a moment he glanced back, catching her still watching him. She was curled up on her side, the hand her cheek was resting on close to his shoulder. He kept her gaze, his cigar burning down slowly. Before long, the town of Goodneighbour stirred back to life below them. Her eyes glanced over his face before she leaned in. Her lips pressed into the corner of his mouth. He did not move.

She rose with the yellow light of morning and dressed, slowly. He watched her as she pulled on her spare clothing. Her back crisscrossed with silver scars and ugly scars, bullet wounds and burns. Without clothing and away from him, he realised how frail she looked. He ignored the urge to pull her back to bed.

Gun secured to her hip, she headed for the door. She stopped in front of it, her hand on the handle.

“Next time I see you, I’m going to kill you.” she said with as much conviction as she usually did. With that she pulled open the door and left.

She shut the door behind her, shutting him in with the silence and the smoke. He placed the cigar in his mouth, speaking around it as he laid back in the bed.

“Bye.”


	2. Hello Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lisbeth witnesses an excecution and Kellogg decides to question some unfinished business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to actually make a go of this, so I actually named the Sole Survivor (Lisbeth) and fleshed out hers and Kellogg's relationship. Reason I'm writing this? Cause I felt more connected to Kellogg than Nate. 
> 
> Also I just clocked a plot hole, which I've now closed up.

Kellogg ignored the narrowed eyes of the scientists, his brow furrowed as he tried to draw a flame from his lighter. The cigar sat between his teeth, turning his frown into a snarl. He detested being in the bunker, with the smell of chemicals seeping into his skin. In his silent opinion, he preferred the dusty dawn of the Commonwealth to the buzz of the overhead Institute lights. He preferred the dirt and the rust that the scientists avoided as if irradiated. The Commonwealth was a lot of things, but it was alive.

As he threw the defective lighter back in his pocket, he remembered he was not paid for his opinions. 

He looked up as Father’s secretary motioned for him to follow. Her eyes averted his gaze, her head lowered as she focused on the wall. She was a sweet thing. No older than twenty, her curling blonde hair tried to rebel against the slicked ponytail prison it found itself in. He chomped on the end of his unlit cigar for a moment before putting it in his pocket.

She gestured for him to take a seat, scurrying away as soon as she was able. There was only one free chair in Father’s office, a small plastic thing that had never see radiation in its life. It scrapped across the plastic floor as he pulled it away from the desk, the back resting painfully along his spine as he sat. 

Kellogg had been in Father’s office exactly six times since he took over as Director. Each time was fresh in his memory, from when Father was no more a boy with patchy facial hair to the old man that hid his fatigue as best he could. Digging his in pocket for his cigar, Kellogg did not wonder why Father spent such little time with him. You kill a man’s parent, he tends to hold a grudge. He leaned his elbows on his knees, cigar held between his lips. He flicked the lighter. A growl escaped his throat as it remained dead in his hand. He threw it onto the desk, chomping on his cigar.

“It’s a filthy habit, you know.”

He did not turn around. Father walked into view, hands folded behind his back. He watched Kellogg with narrowed eyes. Kellogg returned the stare.  
“With respect, Sir, what do I care?” He kept the cigar between his teeth, his arms folding over his chest.

Father hummed his disapproval. He lowered himself into his plush armchair across the desk, a sigh escaping him as he sank into the cushion. He folded his hands on his desk. “I assume you know why you have been called in here?”

“I have been wondering,” Kellogg smirked, “Sir.”

Father reached for a file, prepared for him on his desk. He licked his finger and flicked through the pages. “Virgil has not been dealt with. Why?”

Kellogg shrugged, “Been busy.”

Father levelled him a cold stare. He remained quiet, the silence expanding between them like a gulf. Like Mother, Like Son. He smirked internally. With a stony poker face, Kellogg straightened up.

“Your Mother got to him first. Covered his tracks."

Father hummed once more. “My Mother is a two hundred year old lawyer and housewife.”

Kellogg lowered his voice, “Say that to her face.”

“Excuse me?”

Kellogg removed his cigar, pretending to cough. “Sorry, Sir. I said I’m aware that’s the case.”

“She is simply unable to find, and relocate, Virgil in the Glowing Sea,” Father continued. He closed the file and placed it neatly on his desk. His fingers entwined on top of it, he leaned forward. “The truth is, Kellogg, you lost him.”

Kellogg nodded. He knew when to fight, and when to bow. He found, with Father, you always bow. “I can only ask for your forgiveness.”

Father frowned, watching Kellogg’s face. Since meeting her, Kellogg found he was able to pick up on the similarities. The small facial twitches and tells passed from parent to child. For instance, when they were attempting intimidation, he realised that they both formed a line in their brow.

“I will have to send a team of coursers, and waste valuable resources fixing your error.” A line formed in Father’s brow, “If I did not know better, I would say you were becoming sloppy.”

Kellogg shrugged, “Even the best have off days.”

“True, but a year’s worth of ‘off days’ is quite a different matter. The fact is you’re slipping.” He glanced over Kellogg’s frame, “Maybe it’s time to decommission Project Lazarus?”

The cigar strained under Kellogg’s grip. “I doubt that’s necessary.”

“It takes a lot of resources to keep a cyborg up and running, Kellogg. Compared to the new Gen 3 synths we’re phasing in.” Father reclined back in his chair, the corner of his lip curling into an amused smirk. “There are those who say you’re becoming obsolete. How old are you now?”

Kellogg met Father’s gaze, his eyes narrowing. “Old enough.”

“Well, I would imagine a man such as yourself thinks about retirement? Spending your days in that little fishing shack by coast.”

“Sent your synths to spy on me, have you?” Kellogg smirked. Father opened his mouth to speak, but Kellogg quickly interjected, “Look, Sir. I understand that the Virgil matter was…unfortunate. However there must be some way to prove the…usefulness of Project Lazarus?”

Father tented his fingers, his brow furrowed as he studied Kellogg. “Well-"

The door opened behind them. Before Father looked, Kellogg knew who it was. The scent of clean sweat and Commonwealth dirt fought against the bleach in the walls. He did not turn around as Father stood, his smile widening.

“Mother! How was your trip?"

Lisbeth’s gaze burned into the back of Kellogg’s skull. She inhaled, directing her attention to Father. “The synth is back with SRB.”

“Ah, excellent! You and X6-88 are becoming quite the asset.” Father threw a pointed look Kellogg’s way.

Kellogg frowned as he placed the cigar back between his lips. Lisbeth focused on Father, “Is that all?”

Father walked around his desk, smiling as he placed his hands on her shoulders. Kellogg could feel the air tighten around her, her muscles contracting. Flight or fight.

“Yes, Mother.” He released her, moving back around his desk. “You go enjoy a shower. Someone will be by with a fresh set of clothes.” He smiled to her as he sank back in his chair, “When you’re able, come see me again. There is much to discuss.”

Lisbeth gave one, curt nod to him. Her eyes lingered on Kellogg for a fraction of a second before she turned and left the office. Father’s smile disappeared as she did. He leaned forward, his elbows on the edge of his desk.

“The only reason you are still here is because of her. She felt a…need to spare you. For what purpose, I cannot say.” He sighed.

“What? Your newest toy not going as planned?” Kellogg let his gaze burrow into Father’s skull.

“The goings on of L6-52 is above your paygrade.”

“I would ask why there was a need to recreate your Mother as a synth, but I suspect that would be above my paygrade as well.” Kellogg shoved the mangled cigar and drew out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "Careful, Kellogg." Father's eyes flicked up from the file, "I could have sworn that was insubordination." Kellogg flicked the top open, grumbling at the empty container. He crumpled it in his hand and shoved it back in his pocket. "Apologies, Sir." He remained silent for the moment, but the curiosity knawed at him. "I mean, someone could understand why, given the circumstances."

If Father was angry, he did not show it. He reclined back in his chair, that pondering look on his wrinkled face. “Tell you what. If you wish to make up for the Virgil incident, I have a new task where your effectiveness would be warranted.”

“You need someone on the surface.”

Father nodded. Kellogg quirked his brow. “Someone other than Mom-Bot.”

“Indeed.” Father reached for a remote. With a press of a button, the door locked behind Kellogg. He felt for his gun, only to remember it was in Lisbeth’s hidden den on the surface.

“As you may know, we have had a slew of escapes from SRB. Synths are running the first chance they get.”

Almost like slaves. Kellogg kept his lips pressed together. He waited for Father to continue.

“Dr Ayo suspects a mole. Someone working inside to help synths escape.”

“I’m aware what a mole is.”

Father frowned, but he pressed on. “I have L6-52 working on leads inside the Institute. I need someone on the outside. There must be a trail these synths follow, most likely set by the Railroad, which causes them to disappear. I want you to track a synth and watch where they go, who they talk to, and report back to me.”

“Babysitting. Simple enough.” Kellogg moved to stand.

“I hope you are able to complete this mission.” Father picked up another file, flicking it open and setting it on his desk.

Kellogg did not let his frown show. He bowed his head and turned. He reached the door, his hand on the handle, when Father spoke.

“Oh and Kellogg?”

Kellogg turned to face him. Father watched him, remote in hand. “If you do not succeed in this ‘simple’ task. Project Lazarus, along with all data, will be subjected to the Board.” He narrowed his eyes, a line forming in his brow, “Am I understood?”

Kellogg nodded, the door clicking open behind him. When he was out of earshot, he stomped down the hall. He knew exactly what Father meant. At the end of projects, the Board divided the data amongst themselves for study. One thought thumped through his cybernetics. As Lazarus’ only ‘data’, there was no way on earth he was going to let eggheads rip him limb from limb.

When he was sure of his solitude, he stopped at a balcony overlooking the complex. Hands gripping the railing, he breathed slowly. He looked up from the floor, his eyes shut tight. As he calmed, he opened them. A figure watched him from outside SRB. He and Lisbeth stared at each other for a long moment, Commonwealth dirt still etched into her. She turned away from him and entered SRB.

Kellogg pressed his lips together, his brow furrowing. He turned and jogged down the stairs, crossing the complex with a determined stride. Questions piled up around him as he moved past scientists and coursers. More questions than he could voice. More questions than he cared for. He wondered, as he found her in the balcony overlooking the “retention chair”, if what was driving him to her were questions or the need for confrontation.

“Hey.” He snapped at her.

Lisbeth rested her elbows on the railing. She held a hand up to Kellogg, silencing him. He seethed, but followed the direction of her gaze. Coursers led a synth into the room. His eyes were empty, staring vacant in front of him. They guided him to the chair, helping him recline back. Kellogg grabbed her wrist, throwing her hand down at her side.  
“You and I need to have a little discussion.” he whispered to her, every ounce of fight dripping from his words.

Lisbeth kept her eyes on the synth. “Later,” she returned in a hushed tone.

He exhaled, much of his bluster leaving him for the moment. He turned his gaze back to the synth. The coursers had left the room, the door bolting behind them. The lights began to dim with the whir of machinery. Kellogg had only seen a synth retention once, and once was enough. The synth’s gaze was captured in Lisbeth’s. As the whirring grew to a crescendo, Kellogg swore he saw his face twitch in the darkness. A twinge of fear escaping as the scientists ran through their numbers.

His exhale was a touch gentler, his voice lowered. “Why do you watch this?”

Lisbeth did not answer. The scientists started their final countdown. A voice garbled through the tannoy, bored with procedure. As it counted down, the synth’s eyes slide closed. With a sudden force, needles from the chair stabbed along his spine. When one punctured into the base of his skull he did not wince or cry aloud. Kellogg clenched his fists. Strange fingers curled tighter around his. He glanced down. His grip on Lisbeth’s wrist had slipped, her hand encased in his. His fist slackened.

The lights grew brighter as the whirring stopped. With the needles retracted, the synth fell limp in the chair. The garbled voice declared the procedure a failure. Coursers appearing, Lisbeth moved away from the railing. Kellogg let her go, the warmth of her fingers still burning into his skin. He followed her out of SRB, keeping three people distance behind her as she wandered up to her quarters.

By the time he arrived, the shower was running full steam. Her clothes lay discarded over the floor. He hesitated. He pushed the door closed behind him. He made it a few steps towards the bathroom when Lisbeth appeared, white towel folded around her. She watched him with hooded eyes.

“What do you want, Kellogg?”

His eyes glanced down her body, the towel hugging into her curves. He moved past his envy of it, drawing his gaze back to her eyes. “You and I need to talk.”

The corners of her mouth curled into a smirk. She leaned against the wall, her hands folded behind her back. “I think we can both agree we don’t do a lot of talking.” She exhaled though her nose as he frowned, “What about?”

"Virgil."

Lisbeth's brow shot up. "What about him?"

Kellogg opened and closed his fists. "You hid him."

Her frown deepened. "You gave him to me."

He pressed his lips together, every question in the last five minutes fleeing him. Silence echoed between his ears, seeping into the space between them. A space he desperately wanted to close. Without her clothes and her armour, she was as frail as she always did. Her collarbone jutted from her chest, covered in purple-black bite marks. The same marks that trailed down her arms and legs. He had his own fair share, the feel of her lips echoing over his chest and shoulders. 

“Conrad.”

He blinked. She watched him with her head tilted, her eyes softening. His brow furrowed. He took a few steps towards her, closing the space between them. He levelled a finger at her neck. “You don't know what that little stunt cost me. What you cost me."

She shifted, relaxing against the wall, "What are you on about?"

He lowered his hand. "You can’t be here at the same time as me.”

She scoffed, “Is that what you’re so flustered about?” She narrowed her eyes. “Scared I’m going to kill you while you’re on the crapper?”

Kellogg seethed. “Shut it.”

She chuckled, high and clear like a bell. When her laughter died, her eyes darted about his face. She studied him, and he felt it. Every prodding glance. “Con-“

“Don’t. Call me that.”

She quirked her brow. “That’s your name, Kellogg. I like to call my targets by their names.”

“Do you like to fuck them too?” he spat.

She twitched her shoulder in a shrug, “Only when they’re good at it.”

He paused for a moment, her lips curling once more. In the heat and the steam, he had not realised just how close she was. The tip of her nose was a hair’s breadth from his, her scent filling his nostrils. The memory of her fingertips massaging his scalp flooded back, her body soft and warm against him in the early morning light. 

Her body thrummed close to his. “Is that why you’re here? Round two?” She glanced at the shower. “The shower is barely big enough for me, but the bed is sturdy.”

She moved her gaze back to him. He placed his arm against the wall, caging her in. She arched her back, her towel threatening to spill. His body leaned in. Her lips were soft against his. His hand on her waist for balance, he draw her closer to him. He breathed in her scent, letting it soothe the tight knot in his chest. She parted his lips with hers, her hum rumbling through her throat. The towel forgotten on the floor, he encased her against him with one arm. Her hands drifted up his arms, resting against the sides of his neck. Lost in her, shivers ran up the back of his legs.

He pulled away abruptly, reality reasserting itself. He stared down at her for a moment, her hands resting on him still. His body yearned to be pulled back in.

Her voice was hushed, soft against his lips, “Conrad…”

He untangled himself from her. Without glancing back, he talked over his shoulder. “Don’t be here when I’m here, and don’t call me that.”

He did not look at her as he snapped the door closed behind him. His chest tightened, his nerve endings humming. He opened and closed his fists, trying to rid himself of the conflicting images racing through the back of his mind. The Board ripping away at him. Her fingertips tracing along his scalp. He cleared his mind, focusing on the task at hand. Yet even as he went about gathering supplies for his impending mission, the Institute could not shake of the scent of Commonwealth dirt.


End file.
